Wynona relishes her job as a reaper. Some jerkwad pisses her off? He’s toast. Any douchebag who mistreats a woman better watch out. Lately, she’s been enjoying it a little too much—and Heaven is not amused.

Wings temporarily clipped, she’s doing time working as an enforcer at From Crud to Stud. The body count isn’t what she’s used to, but at least the scenery—that is, her celestial parole officer—is tall, dark, and deliciously hot.

Rafael can’t take his eyes off Wynona. No, really. She’s a 24/7, one-on-one job. No matter how hard this angel rides her, she begs for more. Finding a way to bring out her best side is turning out to be the greatest challenge of his career.

She’s sassy and sexy, and she’s brought out a side of him he never knew existed—an inner Dom that is only too willing to follow her down the garden path of unrestrained indulgence. And once they set foot on that slippery slope, there’s no turning back.

Warning: Virtue has met its match. Celebrates bondage, discipline, voyeurism, and crazy good sex in an office setting, fetish club, and everywhere else. The faint of heart are advised to turn back now.

Excerpt:

“Wait.” Heather stood. “There’s someone here to see you, Wynona.”

Oh, yeah? Hold on. No one ever willingly approached her except another reaper who had nothing to lose. Just once, she’d like to browbeat a shifter into a treatment room. Take out her frustration on him rather than her own kind. “Who? Or rather what?”

Heather bit her lower lip.

Great. Another reaper. Possibly one she’d dated only to have him dump her so he could tame his beast here and give a mortal woman his best. Louse.

She passed Constance but didn’t get far. Her legs refused to work.

The guy on the sofa pushed to his feet.

His scent washed over her, snatching her breath. If goodness and starshine had an odor, that would be his, the fragrance of an unsullied soul. Definitely not a reaper. Not a mortal either.

All of that should have had her bolting down the hall.

His outstanding looks kept her rooted to the spot. He was a large man, six-three or more, with shoulders that went from here to tomorrow. His broad chest, flat belly, and powerful thighs were the stuff of Greek myths wrapped in fashionable duds straight from GQ. Charcoal-colored pants and a midnight-blue shirt. Both garments draped his form beautifully, including the impressive bulge behind his fly.

Apollo had nothing on this dude.

As far as she could tell, he was hung better than most gods and mortals. In human years, he seemed early to mid-thirties. He’d tied back his long raven hair, though a few silky strands had escaped to graze his forehead and firm jaw.

Her knees went watery.

Dark stubble dusted his cheeks, chin, and upper lip. His complexion was a healthy bronze, eyes lushly lashed, their color a deeper blue than sapphires, his gaze deliciously intense.

Give him cuffs and a whip along with free rein and he’d rock a BDSM chamber any day.

Of course, the goodness rolling off him was a problem. He couldn’t be here for a makeover. There was nowhere to go from perfect, unless…

Could be he wanted to release his beast, the same as Eric had done a few years back. As a direct descendant of Cupid, Eric had wanted to ditch his courtly demeanor and become a bad boy to snag the babes. After he’d met Becca, the half-witch who owned this joint, he’d changed his mind about other women, hooking up with her for life.

A sweet dream Wynona didn’t expect for herself. However, if this guy wanted someone to corrupt him and had heard about her hardcore ways, how could she say no?